


weather the storm

by La_Temperanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blankets, Canon Compliant, Caretaking, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: Victor is determined to make Yuuri’s first winter in St. Petersburg a warm one.





	weather the storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thishasbeencary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary/gifts).



> I originally planned to post this for Domestic Victuuri Week, but real life had other plans. Sorry I’m late, hopefully it’s okay if I post anyway!
> 
> I’m also dedicating this to Cary and her obsession with blankets.

Victor assesses the contents of the linen closet with a critical eye, arms crossed over his chest. There’s plenty of choices he could pick from: a thick, heavy blanket woven from Icelandic wool, which isn’t as itchy as regular wool and is twice as warm, sits on top an assorted stack of fleece throws. They’re embroidered with the logos of various sporting goods companies and have been gifted to him as promotional items throughout the years. There’s one state-of-the-art sleeping bag, never used and still in its original case, from that failed backpacking trip in the Swiss Alps that he always swore he was going to take with Chris but never could get around to it. And of course, the handmade quilt from his Mamochka, crafted when he was a young boy, her love sewn in every painstaking stitch. 

Any of these would be adequate options, for him at least. That’s because he’s the epitome of Russian, born and bred; he’s isn’t just acclimated to the cold, he downright flourishes in it. Besides, if on the rare chance he does catch a chill, he’s more likely to reach for liquid warmth of the alcoholic variety before anything else. 

It’s not himself he’s concerned about though. It’s for the person who’s introduced him to love and life, who’s both his protégé, fellow competitor, friend, and fiancé, all rolled up into a single adorable package. It’s for the person who has made Victor the happiest person in the world by agreeing to move into the apartment—which was once Victor’s but they now call theirs—in St. Petersburg. 

Except, it’s in the dead of winter. 

Not that Victor thinks Yuuri can’t handle it! His Yuuri is far from weak after all, even if it did take some gentle coercing for Yuuri himself to accept it as truth. He’s taken the skating world by storm this season, transforming from a delicate bud almost afraid to fully blossom, to a captivating whirlwind of force both beautiful and dangerous in design. He’s surprised everyone over and over again, most of all Victor, and the resurgence of his career has only just begun. 

In the end though, Yuuri is still only human, one who has yet to grow accustomed to the bone-chilling embrace Russia bestows on her people. Knowing Yuuri and his mile-long stubborn streak, he’ll probably stick it out with any complaint, determined not to show anything that might be construed as a flaw in his character. 

He shouldn’t have to, not around Victor. Then again, Victor’s one to talk, since he knows a thing or two about not revealing your true feelings for the sake of others. 

Right, that settles it then. Victor grabs an armful of blankets from the closet to pile them on the edge of the couch. After some inner debate, he goes into the master bedroom and grabs the comforter off their bed, adding it to his collection. There, now he’s prepared for when Yuuri returns home from practicing at Lilia’s studio. 

For the umpteenth time, Victor wishes he had gone along. Not just so he could ensure Yuuri is properly bundled up for the walk back to the apartment, but also because Victor loves seizing every opportunity he can to watch Yuuri dance. It’s what drew him to Yuuri in the first place; the fluid, unrestrained way Yuuri moves is as if the spirit of the music has imbued itself into his body. No matter how many times Victor has seen it, he can never get enough. 

But he understands that as much as they adore being close to one another, sometimes they need space apart, too. Especially now; between the two of them training, sharing their meals, and living together, it’s important that they have moments to themselves in order to maintain their individualities. After a lifetime of attempting to do everything on their own, neither of them are quite used to having someone else to take into consideration. In the beginning of their relationship, it reared its ugly head in the form of raised voices and blinked back tears, and in the worst cases, silence except for stiff, stilted conversation. Nothing too harsh though, nothing permanent, not for them, not when each one is attuned to the reason behind the other’s frustration. Instead of exploding into a yelling match, it tends to dissolve in on itself, guided by gentle touches and exchanging of murmured apologies. 

It’s a work in progress, a pattern they’re slowly but surely getting down to a science. So when Yuuri mentioned earlier about wanting some barre time, Victor offered to go (like he always does) but didn’t take any offense when Yuuri shyly shook his head and insisted no, it wasn’t necessary. 

Still, as the world outside the apartment windows continues to be painted in a swirl of blinding white, Victor wonders if he should’ve at least went to go pick Yuuri up. Just to be safe. 

He’s about to send a text asking how much longer Yuuri thinks he’ll be when Makkachin lets out an excited woof a half-second before there’s the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door cracks open, and along with the cold winter air, in wafts Yuuri’s soft announcement that he’s returned. “Tadaima.”

“Okaeri,” Victor calls back, beaming. Yuuri has barely stepped inside the foyer before Victor pounces, encircling his arms tight regardless of the dusting of snow on Yuuri’s coat seeping into his skin. “I missed you, lapochka,” he says. He peppers kisses along the bridge of Yuuri’s nose and the apples of his cheeks, the the sliver of skin peeking out over the usual mask and scarf combo he wears pinched reddish pink by the nippy weather. “How was practice?”

“I wasn’t gone that long, Vitya,” Yuuri teases, his tone fond. His brown eyes sparkle underneath the brim of that plain black knitted cap he insists on plastering on top of his head despite Victor’s repeated offers to buy him something more decent. “But I missed you too.”

He untangles himself from Victor’s embrace just long enough to slip off his boots to put in the shoe cubby and hang his things on his designated hook by the door. 

(The fact that they were once only two hooks—one for Victor’s coat and one for Makkachin’s leash—but now there’s three is a simple improvement, but it never fails to make Victor smile. It’s an example of Yuuri’s presence in the apartment among many others; it’s what makes the place finally feel like home.)

“And practice was okay, I guess,” Yuuri continues, slipping his arms back into place around Victor once he’s done shedding his outerwear. “Lilia only had to correct my form twice, so I think it wasn’t too bad? It’s still hard to tell with her.”

Victor laughs. “Trust me,” he says, “she probably only said something because she’s not used to having a student who works as hard as you. She’s like Yakov in that she shows her admiration through yelling.” He moves to grab Yuuri’s hands to lead him to the couch, only to stop and frown. “Your hands are like ice.”

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” Yuuri says. He flexes his fingers in effort to get the blood pumping through them. “It’s not that bad though, is it?”

“And is that all you wore?” Victor asks, scandalized, as he gestures to Yuuri’s white t-shirt and black leggings. Granted they’re Mizuno, a perk of Yuuri’s sponsorship with the company, so they’re of higher quality, but still. 

“Eh?” Yuuri blinks and looks down at himself. “Yeah, I guess. But I was still warm after leaving the studio, so—”

“Yuuri,” Victor begins to scold, automatically donning the persona of concerned coach out of habit. But he steps back to remind himself that they’re not at the rink right now, so he takes a deep breath in and out until his words and expression soften. “You’re going to catch a cold if you’re not more careful, lyubov moya.”

Before Yuuri can respond, Victor ushers him towards the couch to sit, draping a couple of the blankets from the pile over his shoulders. “There,” Victor says, standing up straight to view his handiwork. “Would you like some tea? Or maybe I can reheat some of that soup last night?”

Yuuri shakes his head, his lips twitching into a small smile. “I’m fine, really,” he says. “Thank you, but you do know I’m okay with the cold, right?” He shifts the blankets and lets them pool around his waist as he looks up at Victor. “If the constant skating isn't enough of a reminder for you, remember that I lived in Detroit for years.”

Victor pouts. Of course he knows Yuuri has experienced frigid temperatures before—it goes hand-in-hand the job after all—but there’s nothing wrong with making sure Yuuri is well taken care of, is there? 

“Besides,” Yuuri adds, interrupting Victor’s contemplating whether or not an electric fireplace for each room would be too much, “I already have something to keep me warm if I need it.”

“Oh?” Viktor tilts his head to the side and gives an encouraging smile. “What’s that?”

In a flash, Yuuri’s hand shoots out from underneath the covers and grabs Victor by his wrist, tugging him down onto the couch so they land in a heap of limbs. 

“You,” Yuuri murmurs. He noses against Victor’s neck, lips grazing against a quickening pulse point. “I’ve got you, don’t I?”

It’s like Victor’s face has been replaced with an over-boiling furnace. “Yes!” he exclaims, nodding as much as he can with Yuuri’s current ministrations. “Always!”

“Good.”

And that’s when Yuuri sneaks his still freezing fingers underneath fabric to sap the warmth from Victor’s lower back. 

(In an ironic twist of fate, the impromptu tickle fight that follows afterwards leaves them both overheated and gasping breathless from laughter. 

Victor, of course, wouldn’t change it for anything.)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! <3 You can find me teekettle.tumblr.com


End file.
